


The shirt

by shittershutter



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 16:16:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14116131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittershutter/pseuds/shittershutter
Summary: "Say a word, and it won't happen again," Collins tells him, all serious. He brings the cigarette he's just wrestled out of the older man's fingers to his mouth and sucks the remaining gulp of smoke out of it, cheeks hollowing so shamelessly Farrier can't take his eyes off the freshly shaven skin.





	The shirt

**Author's Note:**

> It's unbetad and I'm sorry. 
> 
> I also suck at naming these things so sorry about that as well.

"Say a word, and it won't happen again," Collins tells him, all serious. He brings the cigarette he's just wrestled out of the older man's fingers to his mouth and sucks the remaining gulp of smoke out of it, cheeks hollowing so shamelessly Farrier can't take his eyes off the freshly shaven skin. 

He studies the pale back, bursts of freckles across the shoulder blades once the man turns to sort out the uniform thrown across the chair. What he really wants right now is to run his hand down that spine not to run his mouth uselessly. 

"Don't," he mouths with no sound coming out, tasting the request. His heart spasms painfully, and he adds out loud: "I'm not going to impede on your social life. It's not practical."

There is an imprint of red lipstick on the collar of the shirt Collins is smoothing over the back of the chair, bright, with uneven edges, like a gunshot wound. There will be a sharp, unfamiliar scent of perfume on his neck when Farrier presses his face to it. 

The girl in the bar asks him if she can steal his friend for a minute and when the rest of the pilots whistle and hoot around them, Farrier just nods helplessly and watches her leading Collins away to the dancefloor.

He respects her boldness, he does, not a trait for a proper woman to have in their day and age. As a man who can still taste a cock on his tongue with no amount of beer to wash it off, he can relate. 

There is also a poisonous pang of hate for the bitch he can't quite shake off as she molds her body against Collins and they start spinning across the floor.

Then the song is over, and Collins is back at his side. The lipstick on his collar hurts. 

"... practical," Collins echoes. Not in mockery; just to taste the word, too. 

It hangs between them stiff, emotionless as the younger man cracks his neck, stretching, and the move is too fluid for it not to be for a show. 

Farrier hums in agreement. There is a facade to be built to protect oneself. It's a stern enigma of a man for him, with his brow too heavy, the jaw too tight, the words too few for anyone to look too closely, to dare to ask too many questions. 

It's a bubbly charmer for Collins, quick with a joke, the center of every conversation, the wettest dream of every girl. 

There is no dignity in it, but no shame either, as long as it works, as long as here, between the sheets they can have their honest world. 

Farrier looks down at his cock -- the thoughts his brain has run with has made it soft -- and gives it an apologetic tug, the ticklish touch that is barely there.

"Ask me..." Collins flops on the bed next to him, naked now, too. He traces a long straight line from the deep between the older man's collar bones to the root of his cock. It feels like he is cutting him open to disembowel him like his game, helpless under that touch. 

The shame burns through his ears, spreading until his entire face is engulfed and he bumps his forehead against Collins' shoulder to hide it. 

"I don't want somebody else touching you like I can't," he whispers, his voice small, the words scratching against the throat. "Breaks my fucking heart."

Collins' chest deflates as a massive sigh of relief whistles through the ribs. His soft fingers continue to thread through the shorter hairs at the back of his lover's head, soothing. 

"I know. Saw your face, read it right here," he kisses Farrier's trembling eyelids and then the puffy skin under his eyes, too. "Won't happen again."

And there's that. Collins proceeds with taking him apart with his hands and his mouth, quiet and efficient. Farrier can swear he feels him smiling against his skin the entire time. 

"Used to be so scared of you," Collins mutters, tense. "Terrified."

He tells him how he'd be walking around the man, the legend among the pilots, gauging the wall Farrier's built around himself from a distance. Trying to figure out if attempting to climb it was even worth it. 

And Collins was no stranger to having a cock up his tonsils at that point; he knew what signs to look for. "But you were always so bloody unreadable. What you want, what you don't want..."

"Turns out, you're all warm and soft underneath," he continues, his voice cracking as he nuzzles the man's temple right where the pulse drums against the bone. 

"Just press all the right spots, and you'll open up for me."

Farrier hums at that, not sure if they are talking about the metaphorical him or the physical one, at the moment, because he's opening up alright, shamelessly. With his knees digging at the younger man's sides, hole stretching with a painful edge to it until it clamps around the base of the cock and holds it. 

He feels the shuddering breaths erupting from under the skin where he strokes the younger man's chest softly, to smoothe the tension out, to buy them some time. 

By how his arms tremble, holding himself above, and his hips move in impatient tiny thrusts it won't be much, but Farrier is fine with a minute or two. That's enough; he'll revel in what he is given. 

"You good?" 

Collins snorts looking down their bodies where they are pressed flush together, fitting against each other so smoothly there is no way to tell where one of them ends and the other begins, then back up. 

"Never been better."

The sweat is dripping down his temples now, sliding down the cheeks like tears he can't quite blink away. 

He always sweats a lot, the pale skin turning angry red, and Farrier loves it: the smell, the purity of the physical reaction that cannot be controlled, cannot be shot down by a snarky remark. 

He takes Collins' hand in his and guides it down, cupping his own cock with it. He keeps their hands just atop of it, no stroking, no pressing down, so the man can feel him turn into a pulsating wet mess under his palm as he fucks him until he's delirious; until the remnants of his sanity leave with the hollowing gasps out of his mouth. 

Every time Farrier lies down on their bed he takes all the control off his shoulders, the responsibility, the pressure, and throws them down Collins' feet. The man just leans down and picks it up, unfazed, like all the heaviness from Farrier's chest weighs next to nothing. So light he can juggle with it.

If he ever expected Farrier to be anything close to what he is up in the air, focused, stern and so economical with his emotions it makes people uncomfortable, he never mentions it. 

Collins digs his forehead into the older man's shoulder, whining, while his arse is still up, working, pushing in and out like a well-oiled machine the rest of him is. He calls Farrier his love and his heart -- he can be as shameless with his words as Farrier is with his legs spread -- and comes. 

Comes tumbling through the words like his thighs tumble through the thrusts and his fingers do through the rhythm around Farrier's cock when he finally gets to stroking it to synchronize their releases a little too late. 

Collins leaves him to bask in the feeling of weightlessness, so rare for him to experience, as it's broken only by the small shudders running through the thighs, his body still stuck in the position the younger man has molded him into. 

He can still hear the younger man moving around the room, the hint of his shadow imprinted on the pink of the back of his eyelids. Then there is a hand on his stomach, between his legs, cleaning up. And a mouth in his ear that follows as the bed dips and the room goes dark. 

"You're buying me a new one," Collins whispers. "I have no idea how to wash that particular shade off. Just smeared it all over."

"Wear mine," Farrier says. It's meant as a joke, but his breath hitches at the end of it. "In the meantime." 

"Too big at the shoulders, darling."

"Well, at home."

He expects Collins to laugh it off and is ready to do the same, but the soft lips against the shell of his ear spell out: "Okay. Will do." 

Then Collins presses himself to the older man's side, face against his neck like they are about to dance, and his quiet snoring is the last thing Farrier hears before he falls asleep himself.


End file.
